Page 81 of The Demon Tide

My ragged relief swells. “Oh, Trystan...”

He reaches back to take hold of my hand, and I grip his in turn as I’m hit by a strong wave of grief. “Trystan,” I say, barely able to get the words out. “Uncle Edwin...”

His jaw tenses, a flare of chaotic turbulence running through his lines as he meets my eyes. “I know. Jules told me soon after he got to Voloi.”

We’re quiet for a moment as Trystan navigates the air traffic, glancing over his shoulder every now and then as if he’s trying to spot anything that could be tailing us.

My nerves prickle with concern. “Do you think anyone will come after us?”

He tilts his head, as if equivocating. “Yes, but I’ll report back before my absence raises alarms. I think our timing was...lucky.”

I nod with some relief before a sudden heat sparks over my back in a static rush, every one of my muscles tensing against it. Alarmed, I turn toward its origin, my eyes widening as I peer past the skiff’s stern.

A horned, winged male is flying in behind us, his eyes flashing silver. An aura of white lightning hits me, crackling straight toward us.

“Trystan,” I gasp as my pulse races into a gallop. “Behind us...”

My brother turns, and recognition lights in his eyes. He pivots around and speeds up our craft, his own aura exploding in a fit of blue lightning.

“Who is that?” My gaze swings back to the winged man, who’s rapidly gaining on us.

“Vothendrile,” Trystan says in a tight voice. “My guard. He’s a dragon-shifter and a power empath—which means he can sense magical ability. So try to pull in your magic’s aura as best you can. He’ll be able to read it at close range.”

My alarm spikes. “What happens if he realizes who I am?” I grip hold of my Ash’rion blade, struggling to rein in my tumultuous, tangled aura.

Trystan briefly turns. “I don’t know.”

I glance behind us, palm tight around my weapon. “He’s getting closer.”

“Oh, we won’t be able to shake him.” A chaotic, fiery energy shoots through Trystan’s lines, further heightening my alarm.

Trystan taps his wand to the controls and we bank sharply left, following the Voloi Range’s curve past the city’s edge and beyond, the upper portion of the mountains dotted more sparsely with buildings, then barely at all. Trystan speeds us toward a dark purple peak, its highest, most isolated dwelling cut right into the stone. Blue runic light illuminates its windows, balconies, and broad terrace, and I swear I can make out two black dragons watching us from the surrounding stone’s recesses.

“Where are you taking us?” I anxiously ask, realizing he never told me.

“Fain Quillen’s estate.”

The name pricks a remembrance.Lucretia Quillen’s brother in the Noi lands.

Trystan deftly lands our skiff on the stone terrace, the craft’s runes rapidly powering down and blinking out of sight.

“Stay aboard,” Trystan directs, tension vibrating in his sharply contained lines. He disembarks and waits, his face to the incoming Wyvern-shifter.

I crouch in the shadows and watch as the young winged man flies in, then lands, his gaze fixed on Trystan. He draws in his black wings, and I’m hit by a wave of invisible storm magic so intense, I flinch backward.

The shifter’s overwhelmingly potent lightning aura crackles out to encompass my brother, Trystan’s water magery rearing violently in response, and I’m surprised when my brother makes no move to draw his wand.

The winged man strides toward Trystan, the terrace’s blue light spilling over him.

He’s almost otherworldly in how striking he is—tall and stunningly fit, his hue black as a starless night sky, his ears pointed, horns gleaming. His spiky onyx hair is tipped in silver, bright threads of lightning pulsing over his scandalously bare chest. But it’s his eyes that I can’t tear my gaze from—his irises are a mesmerizing, lightning-charged black, positively flashing with storming power.

The shifter doesn’t notice me, his intensifying water and wind auras rushing so intensely toward my brother I pull in a wavering breath. He stops a few handspans from Trystan, their combined elemental auras lashing around each other like they’re caught in a raging storm.

“Vothe,” my brother says, a cautionary edge to his voice.

“I thought the second wave of kraken struck you down,” the horned man cuts him off in Noi, his tone harsh with accusation, his deep voice strongly accented. “I flew over the mountains. Searching for youeverywhere.”

My heart thuds harder as I ready my blade.

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